Outright lies and other generalizations

I took an early lunch to watch the second half of the U.S. soccer game. I'm not an enormous soccer fan, but I have an appreciation for the game and when the world gets a little excited, sometimes I get caught up in it. We watched the game in Spanish as sport is apparently the other universal language. I pulled up to a table after 6 minutes had elapsed. At that point there were probably 8 people watching the U.S. try to dig themselves out of a 2-1 hole. There were another 3 people conversing near the TV. At about the 30 minute mark, there was nearly a goal by the U.S. and the growing crowd groaned together. At that point the 3 people conversing turned toward the TV and I heard one say, "Oh. Is that soccer?"

Now, I realize that soccer is not the most popular American sport. But. But. This woman had been standing within 3 feet of the television for almost 20 minutes. Surely she felt the room shrinking as more and more men and the occasional woman crowded around the TV. There were people sitting on the floor in the lunch room. No one else in the room was saying more than three words at a time. All of our eyes were focused just to the right of her head. We watched as Ghana players seemed to zip around the field and their passes always seemed to find another man in red. We watched as the U.S. worked the ball across the field and back, before trying to play over the top of Ghana. Failing and then just as suddenly getting a move, a shot, a genuine opportunity to make something happen. Some balls went wide. Some balls high. The best chance for a late tie ended in a disappointing pass. Why couldn't they be more selfish like that guy we just saw from Italy that wouldn't pass to his open teammate and instead took his second shot off the goalkeeper's hands? It worked for him, but we passed. How had all of that escaped her notice?

Fifty minutes elapsed with a few more groans and moans from the crowd. There was some hand wringing, maybe a curse or two, but in the end Ghana advanced with a final score of 2-1.

Yes. That's soccer.

Catching flying objects and the overuse of the adjective awesome

June is a blur. It's hurtling by in a blaze of awesomeness and it's taking a good bit of my energy and a freaking huge pile of laundry to get me to sit down and reflect on that for a moment. It's summer today. Officially. 100% Grade A scientist approved summer. Today. But summer never started June 21. Summer started when school ended. When school stopped ending, summer started when there was more sweating than not. That might explain why it feels like summer so often in my arm pits and between my toes. Vacation destinations one and all...

So. Summer. Hotness. My first big adventure was to Honfest. Honfest had more Beehive hair-dos and bouffants than I ever knew I wanted to see. "Welcome to Balmer, hon" said through the gum-chomping jaws of women of all ages will stick with me long after my new cat's eye sunglasses break. Thanks, hon.

From there I wound up at this shindig that never ended. It might still be going on right now. I've never been to a party where I wanted to talk to more people. Usually I want to talk to less. And when the talking got old, out came the singing. You may think you've heard "Crazy in love," but honey, you ain't heard nothing until you've heard me cruise through "oh no, oh no ohnono" and then proceed to screech out ear-piercing verses of numerous other popular songs in duet with other *ahem* awesome singers. Eleven years I've been practicing my falsetto at high volumes in the car. Karaoke revolution allows me to unleash it on the world.

I'm sorry, world, but awesome gifts need to be shared.

Summer also means the draft league for the local Ultimate league. It's meeting new people and remembering how much teammates help in the quest to be good at Ultimate. I've been touting the advantage of the expectation-less Ultimate game in this space, but there's a flip-side to that. It's being flat out ignored by people that don't think I'm open, don't know where I'm headed, and don't know that I can catch. The early summer breeds a hesitant brand of Ultimate. It also breeds over throws, and I'm looking to pick up as many of those as possible until we can find balance.

For lack of a better transition, balance not unlike the balance of man and wife. Or so I've heard.

Summer weddings are popular sport. There's something about mosquitoes that make people want to spend forever together. I hit up my first summer wedding last weekend. It required a bit of travel, but it was all kinds of fun. I like my trips like I like my rooms- multi-purpose. This trip was part road trip , part reunion, and part gooey wedding goodness. The road trip worked out well. It helped that I wasn't driving. In case I haven't said it before, if you can get your best friends to marry each other, you should go ahead and do that. If that means supporting same sex marriage, do it. If it means more drunken trips to Reno, get thee to Reno. Whatever it takes. Marry those two kids and make like a fairy tale.

The reunion portion of the weekend was no slouch either. Had you been theorizing that your awesome friends from college would grow up to be awesome people, you'd be right if your friends were my friends. If they happened to go out and get awesome boyfriends, well sit down at a table, watch your buddy get married to a very sweet woman and raise those empty glasses to the sky. Lest you think my only talents are frisbee and bad singing, let me quickly tell you about my dancing. That's right. It's awesome. I couldn't pull out the traditional moves (John Travolta's from "Saturday Night Fever"), but I took to partner dancing like a fish takes to a bicycle. Grab on because you're gonna follow!

I'm getting ahead of myself. I nearly forgot to tell you that while seven groomsmen primped and preened, ushers seated 220 guests. We're talking guests down the block. We, two ushers, that's right 2, seated guests, made announcements and still didn't get a seat at the head table. Ushers are second class citizens, only with better dance moves. At least in this case. They also apparently have better hands or at least that was the theory of the other Ultimate players in the room after I snatched (another) garter out of the air. I can't help it. It was flying. It was right there. I couldn't let it hit the ground. I took a step forward reached out at waist level and pocketed another promise about the future. The girl that snagged the bouquet was 4 foot 10. I let my 6 foot friend hear an earful on that one. Where's the fire? Maybe I'm using too much of it. In my four remaining weddings this year I'm looking to come away with at least one more garter, two if I get feisty. It's not like the last one worked anyway, that's why I was in this wedding. After that I'll be taking bids or at least suggestions for alternative garter uses.

Alternative garter uses. Band name or closing to this post? A little of neither. Awesome.

Riding the rails
Plopped on a dirtied orange vinyl slab, the world stuttering by outside the window, I have recently contemplated destinationless travel. I could spend the day on the spindles inside the beltway. North, South, East, West. The Metro could take me. The evenly spaced mouths opening and closing to gulp in and spit out another crush of passengers could become my only distraction on this pointless journey. Flowing like drain water, I'd spend part of the day underground in the roots of the city. I'd occasionally emerge into the sunshine to the click-clack of train on track. Back and forth, to and fro, up and down, red, green, yellow, blue, orange. Neither here nor there, my day would be spent everywhere and nowhere. Please stand clear. The doors are closing.

Let's go cross country

It's simple to like things that I'm good at and nearly as simple to attribute liking them to success. In high school, I had immediate success in cross country. I flirted with victory on more than one occasion. Even as I protected my underdog status and often played unaware, I knew people were talking about me. That felt good. There were times when the success kept me going.

My junior year a boy named James joined our team. He had a good heart. He ran and trained every day like the rest of us. As far as I know, he was putting his all into running, or at least all he could spare like most of the team. During races, he was often near the back of the pack, even last. Week in and week out we waited and cheered James to the finish. This is not a tortoise and hare recollection. By the numbers, James lost. At the big meets his place was in the triple digits. Five runners on a team contribute to the score, James was consistently number seven. As far as I know James didn't get down on himself, at least not any more than any high schooler. He kept running. When I thought about him then, I wondered why he kept going. My collection of newspaper clips was growing. I was battling for the top spot on our team, and on the really good days a spot among the area's best. James was plugging along. "How did he do it?" I thought to myself.

Last night, I ran in a local club cross country race. I pulled my blue and grey nee white Zoom Country spikes from their original but faded, torn, orange and grey box. I went through all the motions, albeit in an abbreviated fashion, that lead to high school success. The striders, the plyos, the deep breaths, the handful of grass rubbed between open hands, and the nervous butterflies were all there. The starter signaled "Go" and a hundred runners poured off the line, with only a little less intensity than a hundred high schoolers. The lead is not often my consideration any more, but at first I battled to stay with that first bulge of runners. For 9 minutes I was feeling good and making progress. I was passing more than I was being passed. I even took a moment on the crest of one hill to look at the rays of sun poke through the remains of the thunder clouds as they shone down on a sweeping curve of runners pummeling the half-inch freshly groomed green grass.

After 9 minutes, the fun transformed into pain. After 9 minutes my body began asking certain questions, the loudest of which seemed to be, "Why?" My brain picked up on the vibe and started making suggestions as my pace slowed. "You could drop out." I took glances behind me and saw I had some time before I would be passed. But passed I was. With each group that passed me, I tried to tuck in and let their momentum carry me forward. It did manage to change my speed and keep me going a little longer. At some points, I could hear my high school coach hollering my name. I had to keep going. I don't drop out of races. I briefly wondered how I would tell this story in this space and then quickly reminded myself, "NOT NOW." I was passed some more. I'd settled in to a new slower pace, but I was still fighting myself. With 500 meters to go, I was passed yet again as I trudged up the last hill. I knew I had enough left to finish, so only one question remained.

How was I going to finish? Nobody knew me. No one was cheering for me. The only people that cared were immediately behind me and looking to move up a place and me. I cared. I didn't know what place I was in, only that their place was better. As I rounded the tennis courts I gained on the two that had passed me up the hill. I moved to pass them and the younger of the two challenged me. With 150 meters to go, I surged and put him out of sight. Then I felt the pounding foot steps of another challenger. I never saw him, but I felt what he felt- "I want to get to the line first." Everything I had left I put into staying in front of my challenger. This time I succeeded. I had successfully defended what turned out to be 20th place, nearly 2 minutes behind the winner. I contemplated none of that as I left the chute and proceeded to lose my dinner in body shaking heaves.

After the taste wore away, I started to remember that running wasn't about the newspapers', or the friends', or the families' definition of success. It was about the good feeling I was currently stumbling along with. It was about a battle against me that only I could win. Running is about testing myself, pumping my body full of endorphins, and then icing my legs when I get home. Maybe James knew that all along.

(18:38)

You all can just...

There will be times in your life where you lose sight of what you want. You'll get distracted by what your friends think, or by the status quo. There will be a dream that pulses in the back of your mind, but it will get buried under a pile of dirty clothes. The challenge is to look inside, to find that dream and to hang on. You'll have to block out the voices that say, "No." and "You can't do that." and "Listen, biotch, there ain't no way you'll ever see my fine ##$ there." At that moment you'll have to take a second to wonder why one of your voices sounds so ghetto, but I urge you to get past that.

When you do, reach deep into your pockets, pull out $9.50, step up to the counter and go see Stick it! with me. I want it. You want it. Otherwise you can stick it.

I know that I am late to the party,
but I promise to leave early.

I'm suddenly obsessed with myspace. I want to locate everyone I've ever known. If I had my yearbooks here, I might just leaf through them and use them as myspace fodder. I'm not sure what I'd do then. I don't know what to do with people when I find them. It's not that I plan on getting in touch with most of the people I find. It's just nice to know that they're alive and kicking, and quite likely sharing questionable information with all of the world. OOH! We've got that in common! But the worst part is those people lead to other people who may or may not be familiar. There's a whole world of people that people I once knew now know and/or pretend to know. I think there's a sociology project just waiting to happen. Or is it happening already?

Oh. Hello best friend's little brother. Are you sure you want the Internet to see the pictures of you drunk?

Oh. Hello prom date. I see you've cut your hair in the last 9 years.

Oh. Hi guy from track. Congrats on your move to Grenada.

Hey girl I can't quite remember. Didn't you used to run around with my sister?

Oh. Hi person I don't know. My gosh, do I come across that ridiculous?

Hey. My friend Chuck wasn't 46 or 16. Who are you?

Hmm. I wonder if we'll need a 10-year reunion. I can have one in the quiet of my room with your myspace soundtrack playing over my speakers. Gawrsh, I missed high school as much as I thought.